


wait until they're through

by waferkya



Category: The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel (TV)
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Gen, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:46:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23234941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: “No one has to know,” Shy says, and the beautiful ladies in the first rows swoon and bat their eyelashes, enamoured with the dream of a romance so precious it needs to be kept a secret, away from the spotlight, from the spoiling stares of the world. And they don’t understand the true meaning of Shy’s words, they can’t, thank God for that.coda to episode 3x06. i had to. I HAD TO.
Relationships: Reggie/Shy Baldwin
Comments: 5
Kudos: 64





	wait until they're through

Reggie takes a look at the stool, at the general mood of the band, and silently thanks his shitty-poor gangster childhood because it gave him the strength to be able to shoulder any hit that life on the road will throw at him. Then he catches a glimpse of Shy’s face, that particular lost-beyond-saving look he only gets on truly awful nights, and Reggie begins to question the real merits of his own upbringing.

Then finally, _finally_ , Shy starts to sing that song, that one asphyxiating threnody of unspoken romance, that fucking sinful homage to courtly love, and Reggie, even through the comfort of all his years as a hustler and his wildly confident, imposing personality, finds that he struggles to come up with air.

Shy even dares to glance back to him as he sings those damning words; just the quickest possible look over his shoulder, and Reggie is no medical professional, but he is quite certain he is having a stroke. He can feel his own poker face crumble, struggles to keep it together, and he knows that Shy can tell—Shy perfected many years ago the fine, fine art of understanding exactly the effect he has on others (on Reggie).

When Shy dives head-first into the next line, there’s a wet quality to his voice, truer than truth. It’s a shitty thing to do, the very definition of a cheap shot, or at least so Reggie figures, but nobody’s asking him what he thinks: the audience is rapt in worship, swept away by the velvety-thick tones Shy’s slathering all over the room. He’s singing so hard he could do without the fucking microphone; his throat will scream murder for days, and Reggie’s going to have to deal with that, reschedule shows, shuffle traveling dates around, apologize until his head starts spinning.

Or he won’t have to, if Shy manages to assassinate him vicariously through this fucking shameless performance.

Reggie knows he should walk away, hide in the darkest corner of the dressing room or maybe even defect to the hotel’s bar altogether, and wait for the show to end. He knows he shouldn’t be standing here, right on the sharp razor’s edge of the lights, not when he can’t keep his composure, not when every single word that Shy is singing slithers under his clothes to paint shame and anguish all over his skin.

He knows this is not right, this is not proper. But he can’t tear his eyes off of Shy; can’t muster up the energy and the courage to take even a single step back.

_The one, the only Shy Baldwin_ , Miriam Maisel has been saying night after night, with a brilliant smile and a happy tilt to her waterfall-clear voice, and Reggie grits his teeth and agrees: Shy is the one, the only, in so many different ways that it’s dangerous and terrifying to think about. It’s always been that way, always will be, and there’s nothing Reggie can do to change that.

He’s not sure he wants to, and the only reason he can admit that even to the private, soundproof space of his own head, is because Shy is singing those words, he’s singing _for him_ , in front of so many people. And shit and fuck and motherfucking fucker, but Reggie feels every single syllable like a knife through the thickest part of his heart.

He stands there like an idiot and wonders what would it be like, to hear Shy actually sigh, and speak his name; and how in hell would it be possible that Reggie’s ugly mug could be a favorite view for anyone, let alone Shy Baldwin, the man who can have all he wants (well, not really).

“No one has to know,” Shy says, and the beautiful ladies in the first rows swoon and bat their eyelashes, enamoured with the dream of a romance so precious it needs to be kept a secret, away from the spotlight, from the spoiling stares of the world. And they don’t understand the true meaning of Shy’s words, they can’t, thank God for that.

“No one else can tell,” Shy sings, and doesn’t add _’cause if they did, I would be beaten to death and honestly, maybe I deserve it, because all I am is sinful_ , because that would’ve been awkward to stretch into the melody.

But Reggie knows. Reggie can tell. And if the bruises shining through the thin layer of make-up are any indication, maybe Miriam Maisel with her wet wide eyes has come close enough to the truth that she’s starting to snuff it out.

Shy hits and holds a note so high it should be painful and instead it sounds like the fucking Annunciation or something. Reggie chokes up on the same uncomfortable feeling that he won’t touch with a ten-foot pole. He thought if he’d left it well alone, it would go away eventually. It’s been there for nearly twenty-five years; as old as Shy, sad as his eyes are sad, as his voice is sad.

Shy promises that there’s no one, no one but you, and he’s an obvious fucker so he turns to look at Reggie one last time, the soft notes still rolling off his tongue, impossibly on-key. Reggie bites back tears. Miriam gasps audibly. The fucking song ends, the next begins, as God intended. Shy doesn’t look at Reggie again the rest of the set, but Reggie knows. Reggie can tell.

Miriam Maisel is a threat now.  



End file.
